


Primavera

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hannibal (TV) Fusion, Angst, Animalistic Tendencies, Assassination, Dark John, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, POV Alternating, Post-Reichenbach, Predator/Prey Dynamics, Psychological Drama, Psychological Horror, Snipers, Unreliable Narrator, emotional issues, mental issues
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-06
Updated: 2017-03-08
Packaged: 2018-09-06 19:57:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 20,977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8766976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: John. The echoes of his birth name scrapes the walls and bone forts of his cranium on a daily basis, and every mention is another set of scratches that accumulate on the tattered walls of his memory palace. His walls and rooms were always stocked to the brim with cardboard boxes and cabinet files of memories and conversations over one-too-many cups of Earl Grey and chamomile. The formerly pristine hallways and the well-maintained Persian rugs and ancient tapestry that onced lined up the corridors in between his rooms, were writhing and seizing in painful tremors the longer that he treads remains in these rooms. Shards of memory were slipping past his fingers, and he does not know of any way to stop it from escaping.
John Watson loses his anchor to reality and succumbs to the slumbering madness of his fragmented mind.





	1. Kaiseki

_**“Don't think you can persuade me with appeals to my intellectual vanity.”** _

* * *

 

Every axon and dendrite in his nervous system, extending from the central component of control and all the way to the peripheral parts of his being, vibrated and shuddered with the concentration of frigidness that flooded his bloodstream. Despite acknowledging the physiological impossibility of such a phenomenon to occur, nevertheless, it was the equivalent of feeling his ambient temperature plummeting a few degrees Celsius. The temperature drop - he numbly acknowledged as a small, functioning part of his remaining rational brain pinged in confirmation - was supposed to be more than enough to deform a whole array of enzymes that were responsible for catalyzing the biochemical reactions necessary for homeostasis.

Life, the system revised the error in its wording.

In other means, he should, by all rights, be considered a dying animal. He was the glitch in the system, the virus, the anomaly in the entire program. Ever since that day, he should’ve -

  
His neural activity fluctuated dangerously, stuttering into patterns of halts that precariously mimicked the heart activity of someone with arrhythmia. A few seconds weathered out, and his mental systems and programs were once again resuming normal functions.

Expired, the system finished its analysis.

  
His eyes shuttered and darted to focus in on the object (person) of interest, vaguely aware of the algorithms and computations being executed in the biological hardwares confined in the hollow part of his human skull. The seat of his intelligence encountered issues, problems, reconciling the variables (assigned so long ago with a specific set of values that should’ve remained constant, because damn it) that should’ve printed out the expected set of values.

  
The system is malfunctioning again. Something happened while he was out of it. Someone messed with his variables, his values. Someone fucking messed up the data.

While. He. Was. Out. A virus entered his program and corrupted him. Again.

  
A flash of white, volcanic agony teared through his chest, breaking apart the fragile chains and glass shards that he has painstakingly glued together in the last few years, with the efficiency of a machine. Alarms and warning signs blared off in more areas of his biological circuits, amplifying the searing presence of the volcanic heat coursing through his body.

  
His lungs stuttered and his breaths hitched, forming a staccato-like pattern that he has so long ago associated with the prelude that signalled the inevitablity of a complete psychotic break. The electrochemical impulses firing down the lengths of his axons were higher than normal, and the rhythm of its pulse drowned and distorted his reality.

  
He sunk into a completely isolated, volcanic sense of existence. Every step was the equivalent of walking on eggshells, and every breath was the equivalent of gambling with a matter of life and death.

  
A mirthless cackle bubbled at the base of his vocal chords, but that too, was smothered by the overwhelming concentration and intensity of the volcanic agony that was clawing apart his own body.

  
“Surprise,” the memory compartment of his biological circuits pulsated dangerously at the gut-wrenching familiarity of the cadence, tone, and pitch.

  
They lied. He lied. They lied. Why?

  
The sudden blanket of arctic calm that settled over his nerves left him nearly reeling in ferocity and confusion. Riding on the sensation, he methodically silenced the alarms and neural twitches that wreaked havoc with his biological programs. Eyes shuttering, he focused on herding in the frantic circuits of his thoughts, until the frequencies dropped to a more manageable level. The violent twitches that formerly assaulted his axons and dendrites dissipated, and the electrochemical impulses were gradually reduced until it only sent a few pulses per minute.

  
Focus.

  
Eyes shuttering open, the calculating portion of his being usurped control of the helm and he numbly eyed the violating existence of the person in front of him, overshadowing his seated figure with the full dose of the imposing aura that would have once amazed him, affected him.

Not anymore, the system inputted.

  
He reined in his vocal chords, constricting them with his iron fortitude in order to smother the guttural snarl that threatened to overwhelm his external demeanor of controlled calm. His blood hissed and the sudden urge to relinquish his control over his bloodlust was temptingly calling on his primal nature.

His bloodlust, his natural hunger, was resurfacing and it is demanding retribution. The dark, primordal mosasaur that lurked in the depths of his blood serum returned with a vengeance, and its maw has already gaped open, seeking to rush head-long into the body of its prey.

  
Crush, dominate, devour, the system inputted.

  
The reptile emitted a low growl of approval.

  
Later, he reassured.

  
The primordal creature radiated disapproval, but it remained silent.

  
Straightening his hunched figure, he slowly stood and resumed to take his full height, moving away from the chair and the table with as much grace as he could possibly muster. He puckered his nose as the reeking stench of the public’s fluctuating emotional atmosphere irritated his olfactory receptors, before his receptors picked up on the small pulse of confusion and reluctance that travelled through the area.

  
Fear, the system whispered.

  
Fear, anger at having broken his expectations, he repeated, agreeing with the System. A small curl of delight settled at the bottom of the reptile’s stomach, eliciting a snarl of satisfaction.

  
With measured steps borne from hours upon hours of tortuous and dedicated practice, he methodically stalked away from his location, his instincts calling for a wider berth between them. Despite the evident height difference, the primordal reptile within his blood summoned instincts of old that coiled around him like a camouflage, acting as his buffer. His reptilian brain resumed full control, and his worldviews shifted as his mind moved to take in sensory information, analysing it for points of weakness.

  
The slight hunch in his shoulders and the slightest hitch of breath that didn’t escape the attention of the ancient reptile. Interest bubbled within his gut as his eyes noted the jittery energy hovering around his profile, eyes darting to observe the twitching fingers and the occasional tremors that would seize the lower portions of his arms. Tilting his head slightly in a manner that was intended to intimidate a lesser creature into submission, his focus diverted to the pattern of microexpressions that flickered across his conflicted visage.

  
Confusion, hurt. But the most prominent of all, was fear.

  
In ages past and times forgotten, John would’ve submitted willingly to the tides of his fury and internal pain, uncaring of how the course of his journey will finish when the full extent of his rampage was finished. He would have, once, willingly submitted and relinquished personal control and autonomy to the full monstrosity of his rage and anger, if it meant that he managed to communicate the depth of his lethality to others.

  
Now, however, brutal experience has taught him that there were other and better ways to do it. He realised, so long ago, that people had not taken him any more seriously than they had before his ‘bad days’. He failed at commanding their attention, their respect. He lacked the sheer will of character. More than once, he was overlooked and overshadowed. Preyed on and used, directly and indirectly, by sources of power beyond his control. His realm of influence. Veils were wrapped around his eyes, as he was tossed to and fro between different sets of hands, all for the sake of fulfilling a part in their twisted agendas for motives beyond his comprehension.

  
That was before. And now, he sees. He knows.

  
And the awakened creature of old lurking within him demanded retribution. Tempting as it was for it to be paid in blood, he knows that the limits of societal morals would not tolerate nor allow such a thing to pass.

  
“John,” came the slightest quiver in his voice. “Say something. Anything.”

  
He could feel the reptile’s pupils narrowing into slits as it fervently observed the behavioural patterns of its prey. He deliberately relaxed the clenched fist of his left hand, successfully reining in the tumultuous, carnal energy surging through him.

  
I will not be controlled or coerced, he calmly reiterated to himself.

  
Afraid of your reaction. He has already constructed a multitude of scenarios that contains the highest probability of how you would’ve reacted, and he is prepared for them, the System whispers, radiating a faint thrum of cold anger.

  
What a shame. John Watson is not one for conformity.

  
He cocked his head slightly in one direction, distantly amused after realising that he was momentarily channeling behavioural tendencies akin to a velociraptor shrewdly considering its prey. His fingers twitched, but they otherwise remained as steady as he remembered them. He could already smell the rising tide of puzzlement and interest wafting off from the other patrons of the restaurant, evident by the sidelong glances in their direction and the hushed whispers that only served to goad his hunger.

  
He’s puzzled because knowledge of your past behavior is not adding up, the System whispers conpsiratorily.

  
A slight upward quirk of his mouth broke free from his iron control, and he quickly smothered it. The System, ever his constant companion. The one fixed point in a changing age.

  
The man flinched minutely, before he seemingly rounded up his resolve and turned on his heels, clenching his outstretched hands. With a quick jerk of his head, he pinned him with a narrowed gaze, futilely attempting a fascimile of a glare. To the public, he might have successfully deceived them into thinking that he retains the dominant position in this exchange. His elegantly-clad figure was already bristling with poorly-restrained frustration, and even without gazing into his eyes, even a man with half a brain lobe missing could conclude that he was already weary of his lack of a proper response.

  
The hushed whispers and poorly-concealed glances of interest made him twitch the edges of his mouth. The reptile twitched in irritation, and it was strongly tempted to silence the source of the racket. However, it patiently swam on and circled its prey, intelligently knowing that reacting now was not yet in its advantage.

  
“John,” he intoned, his voice cracking at the edges. “I heard you. A miracle was what you wanted, wasn’t it?”

 

Found you, the raptor crowed in delight, the opening, the bait intended to trap me. Coere me into forgiving. Forgetting. Burying the pain seems to be more convenient for everyone, isn’t it?

  
The ancient mosasaur sharply turned its head, pinning its slitted gaze on its prey. The full brunt of its imposing energy manifested in the ferocity of its control, its remarkable patience. A resonating growl echoed from the depths of its throat, carnal hunger amplifying its presence.

  
“Miracle?” he repeated in a questioning tilt of the voice, not rushing to say the words because he wants to retain control. “What...miracle?”

  
“I heard you,” he growled, unknowingly revealing the wounds dealt by his earlier words. Anger, ever the instinctive reaction to mask the wounds dealt by his callous acknowledgement. The reptile cocked its head in amusement. “And here I am.”

  
Saying that, as if it meant something.

  
Weakness, the System supplied helpfully.

  
The mosasaur whirls around, maw agape to reveal the abyssal depths of its being, the once-restrained energy of fury incarnate channeled into one deadly spear of motion. The serrated edges of its teeth communicated the height of its deadly elegance as it rushed headlong into its prey, starting the ancient dance of predation and the tales of gruesome glory that followed the survivor.

  
“Yes, here you are,” he repeated, deliberately mimicking a broken recorder.

  
Streaks of crimson stained the water, clouding the reptile’s eyesight with the gratifying stench and hue of pure crimson that gushed forth with the ferocity of a tsunami. Serrated teeth slashed and tore through the thick hide of its prey, and a flood of carnal adrenaline flooded the reptile’s bloodstream.

  
A corner of his lips quirked upwards in a slight snarl, before smothering it completely. He glided his tongue over his incisors and canines, the maddening carnal hunger boiling his blood.

  
He was certain that the man didn’t miss the minute expression.

  
It was intended.

  
A pulse of confusion - most prominently, hurt - stung his olfactory receptors. The smell appealed to his primal urges, and a guttural growl threatened to bubble forth from the depths of his throat. It has been a long time, a few weeks too long, since he last hunted. Since the reptile last hunted, and devoured. Tore something apart with the sheer might of its gargantuan jaw.

  
Devoured something that deserved it.

  
And yet, he wasn’t about to break his own rules. Despite the strong, primal urges threatening to bowl over his rational parts, he refused to feed when in the scrutiny of the public. It simply diminishes the full extent of the carnal delight and the intoxicating rush of pure power that he would have had over his quarry.

  
The Rules existed for a reason. It was to maximise his enjoyment, when his quarry eventually realised that no help would arrive in the form of external sources.

  
Just like how they left him to rot and reel from the depth of his mourning and grief, before he became the depraved creature of hunger that he is now.

  
And so, he stepped away.

  
Cutting off his gaze from the other man, John calmly reined in his bloodlust and methodically sought out the exit of the restaurant. He smothered the overpowering urge to decimate the population occupying the restaurant, despite the obnoxious nature of their blatant interest. Nonetheless, they would be poor substitutes for his hunger, he reasoned.

  
It mattered not, anyhow. The entirety of London was his hunting ground. Despite the prominence of the reptile’s tendencies, he has yet to take the first rush at one of the city’s larger and more satisfying targets. He started off with the smaller ones, and he will continue doing so until he has successfully proven to himself that he is capable of fully hunting them down in one, efficient stroke.

  
As he passed by the man, an arm coiled around his bicep.

  
“Where do you think you’re going?” he growled.

  
A twisted snarl broke free from his control. The raptor released a guttural growl and lashed out. A cry of surprise distantly registered in his ears as the entirety of the reptile’s physical energy coursed through his blood, fuelling him with the intensity of its fury.

  
His nostrils flared as alarmed cries, distressed yelps, and the sensation of fear grew denser around the restaurant. In the haze of his wrath, he distantly noted the steady, claw-like grip that has formed around the vulnerable expanse of alabaster flesh, his quarry’s trachea heaving underneath the brutal weight of his biomass. The edges of index finger and thumb detected the fluttering pulse of the carotid artery underneath its grip.

  
Eyes narrowed, he peered into the widened eyes of his prey. He decimated the urge to lean closer and revel in the shallower, frequent puffs of warm air that skittered across his nose.

  
_“Don’t touch me,”_ the predator growled.

  
Without further acknowledgement, he released his grip and stood up. Turning on his heels, he calmly stalked his way out of the main doors.

* * *

 

_**“Pachelbel’s Canon filled the sun-drowned room where they learned each other and even then the fear flickered across him like an osprey’s shadow: This is too good to live for long.”** _

 


	2. Sakizuke

_**“One can only see what one observes, and one observes only things which are already in the mind.”** _

* * *

 

 _“You don’t deserve this,_ ” he repeated, the cadence of his voice mimicking the same level of detachment and indifference as a disembodied, robotic voice. “You never deserved it. You never deserved anything.”

  
Clamping down on his weary jaws, he peered into his quarry’s irises, observing with a rush of fascination as the dull glint of his cornea remained. The primordal raptor of his mind preened triumphantly as it leaned forward and scented the fresh smell of its first kill in many weeks. The raptor flexed its clawed digits, curiously examining its former quarry, eyes narrowing to slits as it noted the start of the decomposition process. A flare of impatience settled in the stomach of the primordal creature, prompting it to thrust its snout into the fleshiest appendage of its former quarry. As his maw latched on to the first layer, he set out to work diligently and methodically away at the last obstacle challenging his determination to resolve his hunger.

  
Layer by layer, he snapped his serrated teeth against the protective layers of epidermis and subcataneous fat that wrapped around dead prey, strategically retreating his snout and thrusting out with teeth bared as each successive round of feeding passed by. The fury of its carnal hunger elicited a violent shiver that trailed along the length of the raptor’s spine, extending all the way to its tail. A vermillion shade of morbid glee washed over his eyes, flooding him with a renewed sense of energy and purpose. Minutes pass and he settles into the ancient pattern of feeding and tearing away at one of the fallen spirits of the ancient world, the only clue to the successful genetic legacy of his ancestors, from eons long forgotten. The reaction that he felt was automatic, originating from nowhere, and a sense of rightness occupied his being. The raptor listened, and it was rewarded.

  
The man, aged no more than three years and four decades (judging by the state of his skin, the all-too-familiar weariness manifesting as frown lines in his forehead as well as a plethora of medical conditions that shouldn’t have plaqued such a man of his age, the System whispered), reeked of unworthiness, dark thoughts, and dark leanings. Distantly, he felt a corner of his mouth quirking upward in a morbid expression of righteousness as he recalled the agonizing screech of fear that spiked the air and reverberated across the walls, when his quarry finally realised that he was cornered and he possessed virtually low probabilities of survival. Even prior to stalking his prey, he was already alerted to the possible anomaly infiltrating his hunting grounds when the sudden sensation of extreme fury welled up in the pits of his abdomen. The type of fury that only came and settled when a pretentious, arrogant predator of the lower kind possessed the audacity to cross over to the territory of another creature cut from the same cloth.

  
Suffice to say, the raptor was not pleased.

  
And perhaps, he thinks, that is the most detestable aspect of his life, to date. This one not only served to upset a few of the denizens occupying his territory, this one also possessed a certain level of audacity and boldness that marked someone of great inexperience in matters like these. His quarry, for all the self-deception that it cast on itself, did not deserve the title of apex predator. It neither had the grace nor the elegance, and it was such a disgrace in the name of all hunters that existed.

And so, the reptile did not spare it with the same level of grace and mercy that typically marked his signature trait during one of his Hunts. It ruthlessly assaulted and absently brutalized one of his denizens - ergo, so shall Death hand out the same type of karma that it has dealt.

No dignity in life, so shall it have no dignity in passing.

  
Tensing the muscles in his shoulder blade as he pulled back the entire length of his upper limb, he suddenly leaned forward, plunging the edges of his finger digits into the frontal expanse of the cranium. The hardness shielded by the skin layer succumbed to the sheer force of his strength, his gloved fingers rupturing the fragile layer as it came apart. A fresh spray of crimson trailed into the open air, following a rapid parabolic trajectory. He leaned to the side, avoiding the brunt of the spray. He resumed his work diligently and faithfully, until the cranium of his deceased quarry was haphazardly cracked and opened along the halfway point of his skull.

  
Leaning back, he rested his arms against the steady muscles of his crouched legs, impassively observing as the cerebrospinal fluid slowly leaked out of the singular line halving his cranium. The vermillion liquid covered more surface area on the cobblestone pavements in the last few minutes of his work, than it did in the last ten minutes that he felled his prey. The fragile chemistry of its biology, once contained within the harsh and punishing demands of its body, now freely and gleefully embraced its newfound freedom as it followed the open spaces in between the rocks and pebbles that dotted the pavement. The free-flowing liquid bellowed the song of its freedom to the universe, and broadcasted its gratefulness to him, for freeing them from the punishing and suffocating existence that they were relegated to, being forcefully bound to such a being.

  
The crimson molecules were the final touch to the latest piece of his gallery, and it is a signature that no one will have the audacity to replicate again. No one can successfully replicate anything of his making, because no one possesses more physical coordination or elegance than he does. London, the reptile’s feeding grounds. London, his territory. London, his world. Since those days, his territory has expanded to include the entirety of the city. The System implored him to expand the locus of his control from beyond the walls of his safe space, and into the unpredictable and formerly-untamed world of the urban ecosystem.

  
The city already whispers names of his work. It will not be long now, before he will face the final challenge of his current life path. One day, the last of the big names of his ecosystem will emerge from its hiding.

  
With a huff of breath, he drew himself into a standing position, straightening out his back. Resting his arms at the sides, he unclenched his fingers and expanded his lungs, forcefully shocking his system after minutes of focus and immobility. The background hum of anxiety that once existed diminished completely, and he felt a flash of satisfaction and serenity flood his being. With a confident turn of his body, he ventured out of the alleyway, and successfully integrated himself into the patterns of his urban ecosystem. Despite the constant buzz of noise and background cacophony that clawed at the base of his neck, he concluded that he could tolerate it, provided that this incident does not happen again.

  
When he finally arrived back into his  flat a few hours later, the city is already abuzz in a flight of nervous energy as he, once again, announced his presence to the city.

* * *

 _Even in their midst, they still overlook,_ the System whispers.

Prey often had faulty senses. Their psyche always in a constant state of alarm. Evolutionary theory was a savage, priming them to constantly assume the worst of its immediate environment. There was no respite, no comfort - for the beings occupying the lower ends of the food chain. Many are born into their niches, and many more have perished attempting to escape and skew the natural order of evolution and nature. Karma was an empirical reality, and it was often in your best interest not to violate the progression and structure of the natural order. 

  
“Bloody hell, not another one,” Lestrade swore as his face morphed into an expression of blatant disgust, wincing and flinching backwards minutely. He turned his head to the side.

  
“Not another one?” a voice with a baritone-like cadence interjected.

  
“Yeah, not another one, that’s what I said,” the inspector replied, gagging. “You know, I’ve seen a lot of twisted things in my life. Barring your weird obsession with absconding body parts from the bloody morgue at Bart’s, this one really takes it.”

  
“I am touched,” the other man drawled.

  
“If you both are quite done, I think it’s about time that we let the magician take the stage, don’t we?” a voice snarked.

  
The other man emitted a long-suffering sound. “Three years, and the dynamics of field work are as banal as ever. I am certain things were not as upbeat as when I was around, won’t you say, Anderson?”

  
“Hey! We all changed -”

  
Focusing on the remains of his deceased quarry sprawled out haphazardly on the pavement, he grudgingly allocated a portion of his neural energy to minimize the background cacophony echoing around him. The itch at the back of his neck receded greatly, and he used this opportunity to branch away from the group. Weaving around the multitude of officers and equipment placed around the scene, he grabbed the yellow tape and tugged it over his head, gaze never leaving the sprawled figure. Almost three and a half hours had passed, and a low boil of anticipation flooded his bloodstream.

He cocked his head to the side, impassively observing the feature of interest as he consciously modified and edited his body language and movements to mimic someone expressing a certain level of curiousity and analytical bent. Circling the sprawled figure, he creased his forehead in a deliberate display of confusion. With a heavy huff of air, he crouched low and leaned forward, making a show of examining the spliced skull.

  
“Penny for your thoughts, John?”

  
_He will not stop until he hears it from you,_ the System whispers - hisses.  _The mongoose will not stop. He will catch you. He will expose Us._

  
He will not, he resolved.

  
Inhaling deeply, he drew himself up and straightened his back. The gears of his biological hardware shifted and uploaded a new program and data set as it went online. The algorithms of his mind executed the next few steps, and he mentally detached himself from the scene, observing with interest as his body went on autopilot. His body stepped over to the other side of the deceased man and it walked forward until they were level horizontally across the shoulders. Head tilted slightly to the side, the pre-programmed speech patterns fled past his lips, with the ease of someone who has relentlessly practiced and editted the script of the program.

  
“You’re looking at someone who is obviously of a violent temperament. Whoever he is, he wasn’t too pleased by whatever our guy did. You might want to start looking at possible colleagues, friends - anyone he might’ve alienated,” the program spoke. “There was no significant pattern or identifying marker that might link him to other cases. But a definite conclusion that I can make; our unsub might go for it again.”

  
He sensed, more than saw, the inquisitive frown that alighted on his face. “What makes you think so?”

  
He smothered the cackle that threatened to flow forth from the depths of his vocal cords. “The unsub was evidently brave enough to do this, in public no less. I doubt this guy was the type to stay quiet and go along with whatever he’s forced to do. In this case, the unsub might’ve just gotten his first taste. If he felt good doing this, he might just do it again. And the next time that he might do this, this might just turn into a serial spree, taking home trophies of his victims.”

  
“I see,” he conceded.

The raptor flared its nostrils, snarling in disgust as it caught on a whiff of a calculating motive.

  
You roused his curiosity, the System analysed. He will test you.

  
Let us break it, he decided. He will eventually realise that he is outclassed.

  
His body moved on autopilot, carrying him away from the subject of interest as he headed toward the larger gathering of people crowding the edges of the crime scene.

  
“Anything else?” came the gentle, imploring tone.

  
He drew to a stop. Inwardly, the raptor cocked its head, tail thrashing in consideration, mildly curious and not the least bit frightened. He smothered the instinct to grin at the man’s attempts at playing off as the larger, more influential party in this dynamic.

  
Fine, two can play this game, he thought.

  
Head tilted, he addressed him. “The unsub was strong, strong enough to overpower our victim. You’re probably looking at someone with a history of engaging in violent acts, possibly well-versed in martial arts. The unsub was capable of disarming this man in one fell swoop, and it looks like that he took his time with him.”

  
Never let it be said that he was fully aware of the paradoxical nature of his statement. After all, fellow predators - even if they did not necessarily saw eye to eye with one another - still possessed a degree of cognitive empathy for one another.

  
“’Took his time with him’? Care to expand?” the man shrewdly inquired.

  
“Poor man, isn’t he? To have been treated like that,” he commented impassively. The reptile preened in delight when it picked up on the pulse of confusion that radiated from the man. “You have your methods, don’t you? Find it out then. See if my claims have any grounds.”

  
See if you can solve my case.

* * *

_**“Every person is worth your time, Hannibal. If at first appearance a person seems dull, then look harder, look into him.”**_

* * *

 “Your limp hasn’t returned.”

  
A pulse of amusement radiated through his body, flooding him with a sharp prick of anticipation and adrenaline. Lowering the newspaper that he was formerly perusing, he relaxed his elbows against the armrest of his seat. The raptor’s eyes narrowed to slits as it scrutinized the creature facing the opposite direction, neurons diligently processing and analysing points of pressure. As his gaze skimmed across the man’s profile, his amusement was further amplified as he caught a whiff of the poorly-concealed storm of conflicted emotions that lurked underneath the surface of the man’s expression. The detective’s fingers were steepled together underneath his chin in his signature language of deep thought, and his body language would have successfully communicated an aura of calm, assured dominance - if only he wasn’t aware of the significance behind some of the trivial gestures and mannerisms that practically defined his former flatmate, and gave away his most intimate thoughts and conclusions.

  
The dynamic between predator and prey, despite having been said to be in a constant state of flux, is almost always permanent in the context of two contrasting personalities. If he were a lesser man, the urge to succumb to his baser desire to be intimidated into submission in the bid to scurry to the warm safety of familiar territory would have overwhelmed his dignity and ancient pride long ago. And, as he once assured himself countless times before that confidence was ingrained into the fibres of his biology, he knows that this type of response is the only clear indicator of who is worthy of being hunted and who is worthy of his respect.

  
The man in front of him, while possessing a grudgingly admirable amount of willpower and force of character, is already undoubtedly contending with the pressure of his presence and changed personality alone. He could already see it, the reptile could already smell it. The raptor is practically circling him at this moment, and it is mildly amusing to see him attempting to put up the strong front, even to the bitter end. Sometimes, it makes him curious as to what kind of motivation he possesses that spurs him forward to commit actions like this.

  
Unnecessary resistance, he found, benefits only one kind of person in the end. The hunter. He can wait, he can sleep it off, he can spend his time quietly waiting for the inevitable opening. But prey, even in the face of other people that they legally coexist with under the fragile framework of what constitutes a civilised society, cannot help but betray themselves when that primal part of their genetics shudders and subconsciously acknowledges it when someone in their vicinity is of the mental and instinctual leaning cut from the opposite cloth they were sown from.

Evolution made it so. Nothing was a more effective moderator of all life on the planet than the constant interplay of predation that infects the instincts of all creatures.

  
“Your limp, John. Never have I once seen it resurface since my return,” he remarked again, the edges of his mouth turning downwards in frustration and confusion.

  
_He is indirectly implying that you must have found an alternative source of adrenaline in the years of his absence,_ the System whispers. _He suspects us_.

  
“You’re never like this either,” he countered impassively, gazing unblinkingly into the pointed scrutiny he was subjected to. “I suggest you cut it out. It’s rather annoying.”

  
A genuine expression of indignation flashed briefly across his face before it was forcefully smothered by the active repression mechanisms that the man is currently employing within his mental arsenal. “What?”

  
A flood of cold clarity pricked his skin.

  
_Ah, there it is_ , he thought.

  
He uses repression mechanisms in order to maintain control of his own traitorous emotions and frantically always attempts to stamp them down. Because he knows that they have the capacity to betray the most vulnerable parts of himself to others. Because, he knows that he really does not have adequate control over his own instinctual leanings.

  
The primordial creature within his blood cocked its head in intrigue as it caught on the stench of the bitterness and the grave energy of an unknown nature poorly-hidden underneath the mask of calm being paraded in front of him. It is radiating and pulsating out of him like an electromagnetic wave emission, wherein photons of differing wavelengths were being emitted due to the turbulent nature of his internal energy. The uncertainty of the situation, along with the ambiguous nature of his responses and personality, must have thrown him off.

  
“Your nerves are in shreds. Deal with them before you project your own nervous energy at others,” he strategically remarked.

  
Will he be his next quarry? It really is getting tedious.

  
“The case is already closed, essentially,” he interrupted the flow of the conversation. “All that remains, is one more matter.”

  
The vibrating energy around him grew ever slightly stronger and more prominent. The reptile reared its head, observing curiously.

  
“Why did you do it?” he lowered his voice into a hoarse whisper. “That is the only matter I cannot reason out. What did the man do to you, personally, John? That warranted such a...drastic measure.”

  
So, he really does have it, after all, he mentally analysed. Empathy, not just for the weak and the innocent, but also for the ones that have suffered violent ends by their violent delights. He wants to empathize with people, but being the emotionally maladaptive person he is, he is only capable of sorting out the facts, but not the emotional context. Eventually, his own lack of being able to do this effectively is what earned him that deceiving reputation in the first place.

  
“Contrary to popular opinion, I know that you have the capacity to empathize. So, then - empathize with me, won’t you?” he replied.

  
“Despite the - _blatant_ nature of your personality change since the eve of my return, I have also taken the liberty of using your own words and took them into account in my analysis,” he looked seconds away from being torn apart at the seams. “I know for a fact that you are not a man who would change his habits so easily without a good reason for it, and thus, it stands to reason that your moral code will not shift as much, despite the grave nature of your...circumstances.”

  
“Your moral code is the foundation of your...leanings, and from that much, I can also deduce that you must’ve also crafted together a set of rules for yourself, telling you when and who to go after,” he continued, the slightest tremor affecting his intonation. “You remarked that the...unsub, was of a violent temperament who would ‘ve most likely had prior exposure to extensive acts of violence before. You were neither subtle nor did you attempt to influence the line of my inquiry when we were both present at the crime scene.”

  
“As to why you chose him as your target, that still eludes me. Regardless, the profile fits you perfectly. So, I ask again, why did you do it?”

  
He cocked his head. “It keeps me aligned. Surely you are aware of my psychological tendencies. You outlined my profile accurately. As for the ‘why’ aspect, well, let’s just say it was a convenient opportunity.”

  
“How many of those cold cases are yours?” he inquired sharply.

  
Now this is getting interesting. He’s showing signs of weakness. He’s getting weaker. His emotions are betraying him.

  
“A lot, let’s just say. If you took the time to analyse them all, then by all means, please. You’ll find that my latest one broke away from my signature,” he remarked impassively. “But either way, what I am more interested in right now is sleeping and drinking my tea, as opposed to discussing my past targets.”

 

“Why, John? Why did you change? What spurred this development?” the tone of his voice took on a more vulnerable tone. “Why?”

  
“Nothing ever happens to me,” he remarked callously. “Does everything have to have a reason? Not all reasons are as complex as you need them to be. That has always been your greatest weakness.”

  
He glanced up sharply, naked vulnerability plainly written on his gaze. “What did you say?” he whispered softly, with a faint trace of arctic fury laced within the words.

  
“What you just clearly heard,” he stood up, gazing down at him. “Both of us have changed in the time we are away. Don’t expect me to conform to your patterns of comfort just because it appeases you. We both have separate lives, and it’s best if you kept it like that. You’re welcome to chase after - because we both know it’s only natural - but in the end, you should think if it is worth costing you more than what you gain from it.”

  
“You are threatening me, I see. Even after years of silent service and suffering, evidently I am no longer worthy of being considered for only a few minutes of your time,” he snapped, his figure pulsating vibrantly with the turbulent energy of his conflicted emotions. “Did you know the extent of what I had to go through, John? Moriarty, he -”

  
A sharp gust blew past his cheeks as he whirled on his heels and thrust his head threateningly against the detective, his left hand unconsciously clenching as a surge of adrenaline flowed through his system. Eyes gazing unflinchingly at him, the slumbering might of the mosasaur lurking in the depths of his blood was rudely awakened by the force of his fury. The crushing force of its hunger returned with a vengeance, and he allowed it to carry him through.

  
“-had snipers trained on me, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade. Yes, I am familiar with the same sob story,” he interjected coldly. " _There is no point reiterating the story."_

  
The taller man blanched, retreating a step back. “You knew?”

  
“For a long while now. Did you really think I was inactive the last few years? I had trouble creeping up on me, from time to time. But you see, the one thing that I didn’t understand, was the lies,” the reptile snarled. “The lies. And now, we are both missing answers to our own questions, aren’t we? You waited - all of you - for three years, before you decided to come back. I didn’t have my answers then. What makes you think I will give you yours, in exchange for what happened to me?”

  
- _the feel of the thrilling sensation that plagued him at the thought of the reptile’s first hunt, as it sadistically savoured the gut-wrenching screeches and bloodcurdling cries of agony that sprung forth from the strained vocal chords of the pathetic sniper, who had the audacity to stalk him and descerate the carefully cultivated order and illusion of sanity that cloaked his master territory. The tantalising struggle for life and death as adrenaline compelled the sniper to claw for every breath of life, whilst his own compelled him to ruthlessly constrict his airways in a mad bid to claim the victorious position in this maddening dance between the quarry and the hunter, a dynamic as ancient as the birth of the universe itself, where survival is the only end that is worth pursuing, as it eclipses all other pursuits of meaning -_

  
“You know I had no choice,” he whispered.

  
“Neither did I. But, here we are, and like always, we both do with what we have,” he callously interrupted, before turning around. “In hindsight, it is a fair trade , in my eyes. Let’s all face it, yeah? Some secrets will never be solved, just like how I am not interested in knowing what line of reasoning went through your head all those years ago.”

  
The taste of victory never seemed more bitter.

* * *

 

_**“Before his Becoming, he would not have dared any of this. Now he realized he could do anything. Anything. Anything.”** _


	3. Hassun

_**“We live in a primitive time—don’t we, Will?—neither savage nor wise. Half measures are the curse of it. Any rational society would either kill me or give me my books.”** _

* * *

 

The flat was abuzz and vibrating with intricate layers of tension and restlessness that seamlessly blended together like a homogenous mixture of elements of different kinds, hovering over their heads with a level of keeness that he only typically associated with a lioness engaging in a form of hunting behaviour as they stalked a nearby gazelle or antelope. This type of energy was at its infancy in the first few days of his residence within the flat (since he first moved in again) and it slowly grew to gargantuan proportions as the emotional aftermath of their initial argument trailed after them. It clung to them with the dependence of a neglected child, and it provided him with a source of side amusement for the last few days.

  
Contrasting to what would have happened in the past as he emerged from such a confrontation, his nerves and their respective neural impulses have not exceeded the threshold of his baseline mood, which was a positive indicator. Tremors have not made an appearance in any part of his daily routine for more than six months, and it is a trend that he is very much interested in maintaining.

  
After that confrontation, the dynamics of their social relations seems to have subtly shifted to take a more strained form, evident in the manner that his flatmate has taken to put pressures on his unlikely silence and calm disposition regarding the event, by way of his - sadly predictable - incessant torrent of questions and brute-force interrogation. His flatmate thought, rather predictably, that such an elementary form of a verbal guerilla tactic would’ve worked in eroding his defenses. The sudden outbursts of ‘brutal’ inquiries of a personal nature, overt displays of aggression and ‘dominant’ body language following a bold opening (gambits might have once worked in chess, but it surely won’t deliver the results that he wants now), deliberately-worded questions that ended on an ambiguous note - the thrill of the game was rapidly losing its appeal to him. More than anything, the primordial reptile was tempted on more than one occasion to simply bare its serrated teeth and lacerate his jugular, if it meant he would be left with a solid state of silence and tranquility that he has sorely missed in the last few weeks.

 

Unfortunately for him, he already possessed a highly-detailed database of his detective's emotional triggers, and since the revelation that he came about regarding the nature of his core weakness, the biological programs within his seat of intelligence have already developed effective algorithms that would dictate his tactics and strategy, in the future. And the ultimate catch; his program and protocols constantly evolved in order to accommodate the changes in his environment, and thus, it will always retain a degree of unpredictability. No longer was he glimpsing through the world with a set of maladaptive, cheap lens. His information is clearer and as unbiased as ever.

  
His only topic of curiosity is eagerly awaiting the exact time and place when this dull, juvenile attempt at dismantling his psychological defenses will finally be put to an end. The only reason why the game was allowed to be prolonged to this extent, was the fact that it was the only source of unpredictability that has kept him sharper and distracted from the threat of the shallow affect that always seemed to haunt him. The reptile always shuddered at the thought - merely existing, with nothing left to fight over or hunt for. The creature dubbed them his ‘bad days’, and he could not quite begrudge the label himself, for he agreed with every aspect of it.

  
“How do you do it?” he asked abruptly, a hint of defensiveness leaking through his voice. “This silence is getting to be rather _dull_.”

  
A flash of amusement ran through his skin. “I watch them, then see how they behave when they think no one is watching.”

  
“I have noticed it myself,” he replied coolly.

  
“So you did,” he replied, smothering the urge to twitch his mouth upwards in a display of amusement. A brief flash of triumph erupted in his abdomen when he caught the minute twitch of irritation that flickered across the detective’s face. “A hint for you, love - you need more work on your microexpressions. It’s very distracting.”

  
In fact, the very display is often adequate enough to trigger a homicidal bout within the reptile. It was biologically averse to any display of weak behaviour demonstrated openly within its range. It would be a shame to have to clean up a mess.

  
“Aren’t you curious?” he abruptly switched the topic. A fifth of a second was enough to reveal the momentary crease that formed in his forehead, before he consciously smoothed out the expression. “As to what I plan on doing with you?”

  
_Anger, defensiveness, insecurity,_ the System whispered. _He is covering his wounds by an overt show of aggression that was clearly intended to emphasize the degree of his masculinity and dominance. He already knows that he is heading for a crash course. He is just doing damage control over something he has already lost control of._

  
“That is what scares you the most, doesn’t it?” the even, level-headed disposition of his reptilian personality took over, allowing him to dissociate from his body. “Losing control, losing aim of what you want to accomplish.”

  
The edges of his mouth twitched and pressed together to form a firm line. Despite the state of his detachment, he could feel his eyes darting to the side of his visage as he caught the brief flash of contempt that flickered over his face, poorly masked behind a facade of pseudo-calm.

  
_He wants you to continue your analysis, because he knows that this is one of the only few moments that he truly gets to see your abilities in_ _action_ , the System warns with a hiss. _You are on the brink of revealing your hand. The Machine must stop_.

  
Abruptly, he removed himself from his state of detachment and clamped down inconspicuously on his jaws, silencing any other thoughts that would have otherwise poured forth from the tip of his tongue. A low hiss of adrenaline coursed through his blood, and he started feeling a bit more lively than he had in the last few hours of bone-grilling torture of nothingness.

  
“Don’t psychoanalyse me, John. You’re terrible at it,” he intoned.

  
“ _That’s_ where I beg to differ, love,” he pulled back his lips to form a chilly smile. A flash of gratification welled up in him when he saw the minute twitch that took over the detective’s fingers. “You see things for how they _came_ to be, but I see things for _what_ they are. You are frightened, because you know that I can see you. It makes you feel bare, similar to how a lionness eyes the gazelle it stalks before it pounces and makes its first kill of the day,” he inhales deeply, nostrils flaring as the rush of noradrenaline travelled through his brain. “You are afraid, because by all rights, I should have pounced long ago.”

  
“Like I said, _don’t psychoanalyse me_ ,” he growled.

  
“No need to worry,” he smiled thinly. “I’m not interested. I shook things up because you were becoming - how do you typically say it? - _incredibly dull_. This juvenile game of hit-and-run is old school, old-fashioned. When it comes to people like Moriarty, you are calm, because his madness and level of delusion is something that you can predict to a finite value. You could abuse the same, old methods as much as you wanted - and you’d get the results you want,” he stood up, eyeing him down. “No, what really gets to you are the sane ones. The lucid sort, the one that is fully aware of what he does and still continues doing it. You are afraid of someone lucid as you, because nothing scares a man more than seeing a reflection of his own psychological tendencies. _It gets to you_.”

  
“What I have done does not even begin to _compare_ to what you have done,” he growled lowly, icily assuming his full height in a desperate bid to intimidate. “Therefore, do not even begin to attempt at flattering yourself by drawing such parallels between us. There is _none_.”

  
“And that is where you are wrong, isn’t it? Your mind, the marvel that it is, is burdened with an extraordinary level of empathy for the normal human. All that you see, all that you hear, all that you deduce - it touches everything else in your mind,” he remarked, smiling thinly. “Your values and sense of decency are still present, and yet, they are shocked at the associations and inferences that you draw together. You see people and know them, I see people and understand them. And it frightens you to know that you get to explore the consequences of what happens when that very gift of perception is turned to hurting others.”

  
“It appalls you to know that your gift has extraordinary potential to both build and destroy people. The very same gift of perception, turned to the act of destroying. It horrifies you, your morals find it repugnant,” he remarked softly. “You are not an unfeeling creature, you just wished that you were one. But now that you’ve seen the extent of it, are you so sure that you want to _become_ one?”

  
“You know nothing about me, John,” he whispered. “ _Nothing_.”

  
_The smell of defeat, is all it is,_ he thought as he relaxed into his chair, resuming his regular routine of reading through the newspaper.

He made a particular emphasis on paying more attention to the coverage of the most recent economic fallout that just happened in the Americas, which was apparently dubbed as the most notorious hacking scheme to have ever been successfully realised in the recent history of the cyber world. Inwardly, he curled his lip, amused at the level of idiotic idealism that reeked through the perpetrators’ childish attempt at redistributing the concentration of wealth from the various socioeconomic classes. A paltry attempt at dismantling the existing framework used by current financial markets, in the name of idealism.

  
“Neither do you, it appears.”

  
Apparently, his pride is so damaged and his ego so wounded that he did not even manage to get in the last word. How odd was it that his flatmate never once bothered mentioning the observation that he has, not once, uttered his given name in his presence.

  
The only evidence of his gratifying win against a bitter game was the sound of the door slamming shut, a scant few metres to his right.

* * *

_**“He was numb except for dreading the loss of numbness.”** _

* * *

 

A scant few hours since their most recent argument, the Hunger returned with a roaring vengeance, and now, he finds himself slowly recovering from the red haze that stealthily overtook him during his routine stroll down the Thames. Individual muscle fibres of his shoulders coiled tight with the aftereffects of the most interesting struggle that he has tasted yet, his arms were hanging limply at his sides, the long trickle of vermillion followed the planet’s centre of gravity in its calm descent towards the ground.

  
The Hunger, this time around, astonished him. But, not to say that he was displeased by the development either. A fraying sensation of annoyance and arctic fury was slowly accumulating at the pit of his gut, and he is frustrated to correlate this imbalance in his moods with the rising frequency of poaching that seems to be developing in his sacred territory. Something or someone, out there, has noticed his claim in this territory. However, rather than getting the message and avoiding the territorial marks around the boundaries of his hunting grounds, this entity chose to engage him in the most dangerous game that they will ever have the privilege of witnessing in their short lives.

  
Tilting his head to the side, he narrowed his eyes at the deceased quarry’s sprawled figure, marveling at the serenity on its facial expressions even as the pallor of its skin slowly faded into the trademark albino colour that forecasted the eventual progression into the rigor mortis stage. The reptile leaned in and scented the surrounding air, reining in the curl of bloodlust that boiled underneath its reptilian hide. His deceased quarry, despite the initial impression of filth and sexual predator that emanated out of its head, it still ironically preserved a semblance of grace and peace in its death. An aura of relief surrounded it, as odd as it sounded for him to admit. As a result, the megalosaur will leave the site, holding little to no reluctance in paying its final respects to another fellow predator; whose childhood circumstances were unfortunate, for it turned it into the lowest and the worst kind of hunter that existed in the long chain of Darwinian evolution - the hunter that only hunted for sport, and not for the purpose of sustaining its own life, or the lives of its brood.

  
Because of this, his quarry will witness an honor that he rarely bestows on any of the species that he has hunted in his long life as a hunter - his quarry’s remains will be preserved and elegantly mounted, for the pleasure of the public, and for his denizens’ safety. The life that he sacrificed will not be in vein, and it shall not be wasted. His quarry’s life, in exchange for theirs, will serve as a warning to his poachers. They will not disregard it, and if they are as foolhardy and inexperienced as he thinks they are, they will be eventually lured out of their hiding places.

  
And they will be devoured.

  
Stepping back from his handiwork, he gazed into the latest piece of work that marks his legacy in this city, with a pulse of pride. With his deceased quarry bare and unclothed from the waist up, the white sheen of the antlers gleamed as they caught a stream of photons that radiated down the vicinity, casting an ethereal glow around its body. The twisted protusions of the antler mount spiked upwards into the vast openness of the skies as it hungrily lapped at the shower of approval that dawned on it, individual streaks of crimson drying as they slowly slithered towards the cobbled pavements. His quarry’s deceptively unblemished skin was finally laid bare for all to see, a tapestry rich and vibrant with history.

  
_“B-bloody hell!_ You-He was-” a voice behind him interrupted, words broken as a retching noise reached his ears.

What an inconvenient encounter.

  
The megalosaur perked its head upward and craned its thick neck, the slitted eye taking a glimpse at the fresh piece of meat that inadvertently wandered into its territory. The unkempt state of its clothes, followed by the general smell it typically associated with the lower economic classes that wandered the streets as beggars and homeless people - registered in its hindbrain, and a flood of cold focus and energy slithered down its spine. The highly-developed muscles of its hindlegs contracted and coiled together, ready to spring into action. The theropod lashed its tail as it shifted its stance, the elongated head rotating fully to eye down its new rival.

  
The shorter man blanched and stumbled backwards a few steps, as his hands desperately grabbed at the walls nearest to him, grapsing the uneven surfaces for support. The theropod fixed its attention on the rapid expansion of its fragile-looking ribcages, pupils dilating as the putrid scent of horror flooded the air.

“Y-you i-is m-mental! _K-kill-ing s-someone in cold blood_!” with each passing word, his quarry seems to be mustering more courage. Conveniently, the effects of his fear was more than enough in ensuring that his quarry has not yet reached the level of distress necessary for it to start yelling. “H-he w-was right! H-he was-”

  
The theropod lunged, the muscle fibres in its thick neck outstretching as it pounced on the unsuspecting quarry, the hook-like claws on its forelimbs lashing out to grasp and trap his quarry. Digging its tri-digit feet into the ground, the theropod clamped down on the spine of the intruder before rapidly pulling back. The theropod used the momentum to whirl around, using its robust muscles to retreat further into the safety of its concealed territory. A pulse of anger ran through its blood and the megalosaur snapped its jaws, serrated teeth rending through layers of flesh and subcataneous fat, fracturing sets of bones into fragile pieces.

  
The intruder collapsed into the ground, muscles twitching as the effects of drug rapidly worked its way into his system. Leaning forward, he coiled his fingers around the nape of his neck, fingernails grazing the skin as he shifted the majority of his bodyweight into his outstretched arms. His quarry’s arms jerked frantically in the first few seconds upon the the administration of the first dosage, but eventually the efforts of his struggle receded rapidly as the energy in his system dissipated a violent jerk, propelling him into the throes of unconsciousness. The muscles in his arms and shoulders grew limp, followed by the final rush of air that was expelled by his lungs.

  
_Poacher number one caught_ , the reptile whispered.

 _He knows. He must be behind these poachers, because he knows the profile of victims that you like. The personality patterns, the history - too convenient,_ the System hissed in displeasure. _Of course they know its our territory. It’s our territory, we pitched our claim. But he knows it’s ours, because he knows us too well. And he will keep sending more of them in, because he knows that we will eventually slip up, sooner or later._

The cycle cannot continue, not on his watch.

 _Burn the heart out of him_ , the reptile goaded. _Burn it out of him, and eviscerate its remains._

Standing up, he bent down and grabbed the unconscious man by the scruff of his neck. As he stalked forward, he ventured into the more concealed area of the alleyways, arm stretching behind him as it accommodated the tedious weight. Positioning his hands against the junction of the man’s shoulders, he drowned out the sickening crack of the joint as the arm was deliberately displaced from its socket. With a huff of annoyance, he clambered on to his feet and calmly sauntered away.

The man will not remember him. His rival was foolish enough to wander into forbidden territory. And because of that, his punishment is enduring a painful, lifeless comatose state for the next few months.

The final legacy of Moriarty was not his dead body and his broken promise of three bodies and three gunmen.

His final legacy was his _madness._

* * *

“You got a lot of guts, coming to me after all of this,” an American voice replied. The slightest tinge of exasperation belied his words, however.

  
“I need a place to lay low for a while. You’d understand, don’t you, mate?” he retorted, an undertone of frigidness.

The American sighed. “Of course, come on in.”

  
“Cheers,” he smiled thinly at the eyepiece of the door.

* * *

Even as he leaned in to eavesdrop on the conversation, he could not quite suppress the thrill that slithered down his back.

  
“He _harmed_ a member of my homeless network,” a voice intoned coldly. “I have sent them out countless times. _No_ word of him, or his current whereabouts. It was as if Mark disappeared. It is evident that this type of behaviour has been going on for years, Mycroft. _You are slipping_.”

  
“And what would you propose I do, little brother? Orchestrate a man-hunt in the midst of the great cesspool for loungers of the Empire that is called London?” the elder male retorted, sighing. “Doctor Watson is of no danger to the general public - a fact so blatant that I am uncertain as to how it slipped past your notice. The targets that he chooses, are convenient as they can be. Not only does he dispose of the lower class of criminals, it is also very clear - astoundingly so - as to the nature of his intentions when he routinely and repetitively abstains from targetting the innocent portion of the human population of this city. Frankly, it appears to me that you seem to be the primary driver behind his agitated behavior as of late.”

  
“Agitated behaviour? Is that you call it? It appears to me that you were already aware of his leanings, even in the midst of my absence!” the younger male snapped. “ _He is running rampant in the city!_ Therefore, do not dare to pin the blame on me for it doesn’t change the fact that a man out there is dead, and you did nothing to change it! It is as if you willingly advocate for such a thing! Here, in this city!”

  
“And what does it change even if I had? Have I not told you, brother dear, that caring is not an advantage? You have allowed yourself to grow soft, in your time away. If you already find this agonising, then imagine the extent of the suffering that the normal mind endures under the pressure of its grief and sorrow,” the other male replied calmly, ignoring the jibe against his dubious morals. “For all of the empathy that you possess and go to great lengths to conceal, you fail to grasp the very process that molded his current outlook in the first place.”

  
“Don’t even dare, Mycroft,” he growled. “I don’t appreciate it when others try their hand at psychoanalysing me. It never works.”

  
“You only choose to see what you see, little brother. Those latent traits were never absent, they were merely dormant. These tendencies are ones that have always been present, even from birth. There is nothing that can be done,” the other male continued coolly. “He is completely changed, little brother. You may have saved his life, but in return, you exchanged some fundamental aspects in return for others. We all have limits. Your dear doctor merely discovered his.”

  
“And just because you say this, you expect me to simply sit and accept it?” he whispered frigidly.

  
“Yes, brother dear. _Accept it_ , and work with what remains,” the older male reiterated bluntly. “If you do not wish for a repeat of this, I highly suggest being mindful of your words around him. Regardless of the nature of his dillusion and the deceptively pleasant mask that he wears, remember that Dr. Watson has emotional triggers in place that you would be wise to avoid. The nature of his unpredictability is unclear for now, but it is necessary to adapt and relearn, Sherlock. Study him and gauge his reactions. But remember not to frame him as the enemy here. You might not be able to stop his tendencies, but you can do your part in minimizing its frequency. People of his ilk will not recover, even within psychiatric wards. And I fear that we may incur more damage than necessary shall we do the latter.”

  
“Forward-thinking as ever, are you not?” the younger one sneered, belying his poorly-concealed layer of hurt. “No doubt Mummy would have been proud.”

  
Feeling the end of his patience coming to a close, he stepped out from the corner of the doorway and entered the room. As the view of the sitting room and the bookshelves lining the walls emerged into view, he savoured the sharp prick of naked astonishment that permeated the air. As he stopped in the centre of the room, his eyes darted between the two seated figures, the reptilian aspect of his mind coming to play as it performed numerous calculations. Despite the complete state of dress, a portion of his blood started heating as the pattern of his thoughts turned to more intimate settings. His fingers itched and clamored for the prospect. The scent of organic chemicals, fast-food takeaway, the slightest hint of his trademark musk - all three intermixed to form the most potent and tantalising scent mixture that he has not had the privilege of encountering for more than a decade. It was a mixture of scents that promised the prospect of an equal match.

  
The mongoose.

  
The mongoose that haunts his territory, the one who has neither a weakness nor an affinity that stems from his nature. A creature that sustains itself off of the denizens in his lands, but neither wants nor seeks out a direct conflict with the ruling creature that stalks the marked grounds. For a creature that is content on feeding on the lesser creatures on the lower ends of the trophic levels of his ecosystem, the mongoose is a creature deserving of his respect - purely for its ability to prove itself an ideal match for his own reptile. The mongoose he wants inside his territory when the snakes slither by.

 

“Well, this is a pleasant surprise,” he smiled genially at the consulting detective, gaze roaming over the tense body language that plagued every muscle on his body.

* * *

 

_**“The very air had screams smeared on it. He flinched from the noise in this silent room.”** _


	4. Takiawase

 

The final stage of his evolution was complete. 

 

Now, it waits.

* * *

_**“He moves smoothly and slowly, carrying his concentration like a brimming cup.”** _

* * *

 

“I don’t even know how the hell you deal with this, Watson. You’ve got those skills they still pounded into your head from the military; why do you still hang around?” the gray-haired man seated opposite of him exhaled a long wisp of smoke through his nostrils, the thick body of the cigar pinched between his fingers. “Were you worried that they might link back the bodies to you? You know me better than that.”

Leaning back into his seat, he tossed his cards on the roundtable, exhaling sharply as the tangy scent of the cigar stung his olfactory receptors. He cocked his head to the side, left arm reaching across the table, grabbing the large bundles of cash. “Too late for that, mate. They already did,” he inserted them into the pocket of his jacket. “Not that it makes a difference in the least. I’m not about to change myself, just because one of them happens to be all butthurt about it.”

  
The gray-haired man snorted derisively, folding his arms and leaning forward as he placed them atop the round table. “I still have those...contracts, Watson, if you’re still up for them. It’s helluva lot better than all the shit that you’re cooking up that must’ve had ‘em so riled up,” he gestured to the manila folder splayed atop the table. He lifted the butt of the cigar to his lips, inhaling the pungent smell. “The clients are pitching the largest bid yet for this one. You’d wanna take a look at that, trust me. Better than risking your damn neck cleaning up street trash like the ones you’re looking out for.”

  
He raised an eyebrow, crossing his arms over his torso. “What’s the catch with this one, then? Rich bloke who screwed up too many of them street girls? Some member of Moriarty’s web that I somehow missed, and that your intel picked up? The suspense is killing me.”

  
The man sighed, tossing down the cigar into the ashtray, the grey smoke curling through the air. He leaned forward, hand pushing againt the cover of the folder, sending it skittering across the oak table. “If you just shut that damn mouth o’ yours for one second, read the damn file and give me your answer. Like I said, it’s not something you’d want to miss.”

  
_I smell something complex and juicy_ , the megalosaur growled. _Whatever this is, we finally did it._

  
Grabbing the envelope, he gazed down at the myriad of photos scattered about the envelope, diligently studying the main subject of interest featured in various photos. The target was photographed from various angles and shadowed in various public locations, indicating that his quarry was one that is in possession of good, physical health and also has a certain amount of vitality remaining, despite the blatant nature of his age. The clothing style and aesthetic preferences were consistent in each photo, another feature of interest.

  
The beast released a guttural growl of delight, stalking to and fro across his mental space. The corded muscles in the creature’s tail thrashed from side to side in bated anticipation.

  
_A predator, of a different league_ , the System whispered excitedly. _A keystone predator. Well-connected, hates inconsistency, and still an active hunter. But a hunter of the type that hunts for sport; plays with his prey how a cat plays with the mouse before devouring it._

  
_The lowest kind_ , the megalosaur growled. A hiss of approval echoed throughout the room.  _Not predator_.

  
A predator that hunts for sport. A ‘predator’ that uses red herrings to smoke its true nature.

  
_Prey_ , a new entity whispered, enunciating the last letter with a lengthy, sinister hiss. It was unapologetic about the abrupt nature of its attempt at correcting the earlier assessment. 

 

The entity was correct. It was not a 'predator'. It was a potential  _quarry._

  
He licked his teeth. Gazing up from the contents of the envelope, he peered intently into the considering and calculating eyes of the older man seated across from him, tilting his head. “What’s the catch?” he reiterated.

  
A pure bred, apex predator knows a lure when it sees one. Albeit, it is the type of lure that he also finds innately difficult to actually resist. The tempting call rising from the beast’s bloodthirsty nature was pounding against the inner layers of his skin. The surface of his blood vessels were twitching and writhing in the agony.

  
“Charles Augustus Magnussen. A man that has made his living from highly successful blackmail operations, and a man that has a lot of enemies,” the older man took the cigar from the ashtray, wisps of smoke curling through the air as he brought it closer to his lips, inhaling a lungful of the substances. “But here comes the interesting tidbit - no one can touch him. Absolutely, no one. Not even the government. Not even the court. Physically, socially, financially. He has a lot of enemies, but that makes up for it with the things that he threatens to blackmail them about. Like good’ol Machiavelli once said, if you can’t inspire them love then make ‘em fear the hell out of ya.”

  
“He collects assets, if you can believe this fucking asshole. I opened up the polls a week ago, and the clients pitched in a lot of money on this guy. Even the ones that didn’t eventually agreed to change their minds and put all of their money under this guy’s name,” the man chuckled leaning back into his seat. “Was lots of fun, actually. I promised them all a larger cut of the pool money than the usual rate, if you could just do it in a specific way for me,” a manic gleam crept into his pupils. “And don’t worry, that includes you too, in case you were, you know, worried.”

  
The alien entity emitted another low hiss of approval.

 

Distantly, another part of himself briefly wondered as to the fate of the megalosaur’s earlier voice and to the instinctual echoes of its preferences in circumstances like these. It was as if the juvenile raptor that evolved to become the ancient, unmatched hunter on par with the tyrannosaur stalking his mindscape had suddenly vanished into the void, the only evidence of its sudden absence a gaping hole in the space where it once had a tangible presence. He also wondered on the silence plaguing the usual growls originating from the slumbering might of the mosasaur.

But he had more pressing problems.

  
“What’s the condition?” he leaned back into the seat, wolfing down the last shot of tequila from the drained bottle.

  
The older man grinned, arrogantly tilting his head. “Infiltrate his home, Appledore, and assassinate him there. They don’t even care how you do it. _Burn him, cut him up, shoot him, throw him off the roof - it doesn’t matter_. All they want,” he leaned forward, eyes glinting madly. “is the front row seat where they can see it all, up front and personal.”

  
_We will rewrite history_ , the alien hissed, the low guttural sound from its throat reflecting his desire.

  
“How much is the cut?” his lips twitched into a smirk, but he smothered the urge.

  
The man in front of him smiled in a manner reminiscent of the Cheshire cat. “Five hundred grand, for you, with an additional five hundred grand more if you can find a way to broadcast it live, all over the damn country. Without them noticing,” his eyes glinted. “Whaddya say, skipper? You in? Or are you out?”

  
This man is clearly _insane._ His nostrils flared in approval.

  
The beast curled its gargantuan tongue inwards in delight, its abyssal maw tasting the air. A shrill screech echoed in his mindspace as the unearthly sound escaped the creature’s vocal chords. The vertebrate-like tail of the entity lashed through the air, the ebony bone frills tracing down the length of the tail gleaming in a sinister shade of crimson.

  
The final stage of his metamorphosis was complete.

  
“I’m in,” he declared.

* * *

_**“When the Fox hears the Rabbit scream he comes a-runnin', but not to help.”** _

* * *

 

When John returned from the trek through the heart of his urban territory and ventured back to the familiar grounds of his home in the famed site of Baker Street, the guard hairs on his forearms tingled and bristled upwards in anticipation as the musky scent of the Baker Street apartments stung his olfactory receptors. As the stalwart oak door creeked open to reveal the expanse of space that it sheltered from public view, the beast sheltering inside his mindscape growled as a foreign, pungent scent of the diabolical kind was intermixed with the familiar, comforting scent that he has long associated with routine and familiarity.

  
Hunched over and stalking forward through the space of his den, the alien entity perked up and scented the air particulates circulating down the stairs, the thick, upward protusions tracing down the length of its sinister tail slithering through the air. A shrill cry escaped the creature’s gaping maw, the ebony carapace of a skull twisting sharply in the direction of the foreign presence. The creature resumed movement, the length of its exoskeleton-like body weaving to and fro with a new level of alertness and potential hostility.

  
_Intruder_ , the System hissed a low warning. A pulse of outrage radiated outwards from the complex machinery. An intruder of the diabolical kind.

  
A foolish, presumptuous animal wandered into his nest. Prey wandered into his nest, lured in by something he didn’t make. That means that someone leveraged their intimate associations with him and staged his sacred sanctuary as a lure for the nearby trout, with the intent to feed on his hallowed grounds. A vulture masquerading as a lynx.

  
Head tilted in consideration, the beast snarled silently and hunched itself, hind legs tensed and poised for a potential pounce as it lowered itself further to the ground. Crawling forward, it ascended the staircase, curiosity luring it in.

  
“...the letters, _Mr. Holmes_ ,” a quiet voice intoned, which betrayed the true extent of its owner’s veiled (unveiled) nature. “I think I will keep them. For now.”

  
“Mr. Magnussen -” the mongoose of a man pleaded.

  
“It was a most interesting visit, Mr. Holmes. But, I am afraid that I will have to hold on to them. Just for a little longer,” the soft voice, while deceptively mild in tone, concealed the venom within the burrow. “Mrs. Smallwood, you see, is of _great personal interest_ to me. She’s funny. The faces that she makes. You should have seen it.”

  
The entity released a low growl of warning.

  
A fierce, scorching urge overwhelemed his biology. The familiar red haze that rarely haunted him during one of his Hunts, resurfaced from the twilight depths of his subconsciousness and darted forward, slithering across the dark grounds of his mindscape. The sensation filled every square metre of his cerebral matter, infecting every and all types of neurons as the electrical activity of his reptilian brain reached new levels. The creature’s vision sharpened to improbable levels, its sense of smell heightening and further amplifying the intoxicating sensation spreading through every cell in his body as it caught on the thick, tangy taste of danger that curled through the open space.

  
With a renewed sense of vigor, the Xenomorph pounced.

  
“Is this man bothering you, love?” the words escaped his lips in a soft whisper, echoing across the fragile stillness that overtook the open space between them all.

  
Redirecting his arctic gaze in considering calculation and shrewdness, the entity swept its gaze over the fragile, bespectacled profile of the media mogul haunting its nest, the creature’s piercing intelligence seeing past the feigned exterior of authority and power. As if in subconscious relief, the detective shakily retreated a few steps past his seating chair, placing himself none too subtly behind his imposing presence, shaky exhales of breath puffing out of him in quick succession. The red haze from prior moments threatened to overtake him again as his heightened senses picked up on the unconscious tremors plaguing the detective’s hands, the only physical symptom of the emotional aftermath of what ever confrontation that has transpired in the absence of his protective watch.

  
“ _John_ ,” came the shaky exhale of relief. His voice cracked slightly. “I -”

  
The bespectacled profile snapped into alertness, as if emerging from a detached, trance-like state. Head tilted in consideration, a fleeting upwards quirk of the mouth alighted across the media mogul’s visage, before it was quickly smothered by the forced veil of civil dignity. “John Watson. The man of the hour,” he lifted his right hand out of his pocket, fingers adjusting his rounded spectacles, tweaking the angle of its perch across his nose bridge. The cerulean pupils peered back at him, alight with renewed interest. “The Confirmed Bachelor still, I see. Have plans tonight, I bet? Who wouldn’t, not without this...delectable presence.”

  
The vulture tilted its avian head, the dead ebony gaze assessing approvingly at the carrion in front of it.

  
The Xenomorph screeched, hissing.

  
In a distant corner of his mind, the[ King](https://www.sideshowtoy.com/assets/products/200333-alien-king/lg/aliens-alien-king-maquette-200333-12.jpg) roused itself from its epoch-long slumber.

  
The trembling of his detective’s hands grew slightly more pronounced behind him, regardless of his protective watch. The mongoose felt threatened, and it was now scurrying along the earth in a frantic pace.

  
He smothered the primal urge to assert his dominance over his territory, his sanctuary. Straightening his back, he tilted his head in a reptilian manner, bearing down the full weight of his primitive fury atop this treacherous vulture, circling over his nest. A brief flicker of an unconscious emotion slithered across the surface of the other man’s glassy gaze. Despite the subtle nature of the change in the body language, the Xenomorph’s intelligence was still acute enough to notice it. As he stepped forward, a rush of vicious delight made the entity shrill a joyous cry as the media mogul inadvertently retreated a step back, his eyelids slightly widened - as if surprised at seeing the anomaly in his behavior, despite the extensive nature of the calculations that did their best to predict his reactions. The businessman’s right hand released its grip on his spectacles, returning to the protective casing of his pockets.

  
As the silence grew, the entity continued its silent assessment of the minute changes that went unseen and unnoticed in his body language. Despite the trivial nature in the minor flashes of emotional leakage across his microexpressions, John felt his arctic rage amplifying to greater levels as the thick veil of that inferior social camouflage was once more back in the arena. Despite the extent of the glamour and red herrings plaguing the fragile, social smokescreen, the beast within still shrilled in primal delight.

  
The King emerged from its treacherous den, the soft steps echoing across the dark space. Eyeing the morsel of meat that audaciously continued gazing into its eyes, foolishly trying to actively repress its primal fear, the frills behind the thick, bony carapace extending from its cranium expanded in a dominant show of authority and menace, the sinister vertebrate-like tail lashing to and fro. The bone-like protusions on its shoulders caught the dim light filtering through the expanse of its den, gleaming in an ethereal fashion. The King reared its magnificient crown, a snarl forming along the length of its elongated maw.

  
The same flicker of emotion danced across his quarry’s glazed eyes. The vulture inched away, talons clumsily gripping at the earth that suddenly had the consistency of sand underneath it.

  
The King flexed its upper forelimbs, clawed appendages extending outwards, grappling for friction across the silty ground. The opposite forelimb reached out to its full length, individual serrations lining the edges of the curved protusions protruding from the base of its threatening appendages cutting through the earth. With each step, the King slithered its sinewy exoskeleton build across the earth, the dim light revealing more of its menacing hide.

  
The vulture screeched.

  
What little tinge of blood that remained on the man’s skin retreated completely as he continued tracking his gaze over his profile. His skin took on a deathly pallor, as if he had just come to an inner realisation pertaining to the depth of the threat that came with his prolonged stay in the King’s hallowed nest. The genuine survivor of hardships, unclouded by remorse. The biological marvel.

Even from a distance, the King could taste the strong pulse of envy and fear that radiated out of its quarry.

The elderly man smiled thinly, the teeth behind the gesture a meaningless one. For all of his quarry’s intelligence, a prey can never fully conceal its true nature in front of a genuine force of nature. “I will take my leave then, if that’s all, Mr. Holmes.”

  
The familiar tone of his animalistic growl had evolved to take on a more sinister, imposing note. As the King opened its abyssmal maw, the unearthly sound reverberated and echoed across the space, mimicking the harsh cacophony produced naturally by the sound of metal scraping across metal which was intermixed with the sound naturally produced by the dominant call of ancient theropods as they bellowed their delight at the conclusion of a successful hunt. Morphed together, the sounds formed a brutal symphony of an unlikely beauty and purity, even as it emerged from the vocal chords of a remorseless entity.

  
No words need be spoken, for the King’s presence was accounted for. Without any effort on his part, he subtly manipulated his quarry into revealing its true nature, discarding its smokescreens and efforts at subterfuge. After an agonising period of being confined into his chrysalis, the juvenile raptor developed by leaps and bounds as it evolved from one form to another, each form succeeding its predecessor, eclipsing each one in terms of prowess, endurance and speed. Each Hunt has culminated in the development of the most spectacular biological marvel to haunt the grounds of this epoch.

  
Perched from atop it all, his Xenomorph eclipses all other lifeforms before it.

  
“John? Please let go of me,” the man beside him whispered, in a subdued tone. A curl of fury rolled through his stomach. A few nanoseconds later, a gentle tug drew his attention away from the open doorway. “John. Please.”

  
The King hissed in disapproval.

  
He must have externally radiated his disapproval, for the detective flinched slightly as he rapidly retreated the formerly tight grip of his hand from the sleeve edges of his luxurious, Saville Row suit. Snapping his head to redirect his gaze, he furrowed his brows in puzzlement as the towering height of his detective slowly hunched over and slowly retreated from his side, head bowed and craned away from his general direction, the curled fringes of his crow-hued hair falling to cover the vulnerable expanse of his forehead. His spine curved as if his body expressed a desire to curl into a foetal position and conceal itself away from the scrutinising assessment of the black entity, in a bid to protect what remaining pride it had left. The taller man walked shakily towards his seating chair, flopping down gracelessly.

  
The _Xenomorph_ lashed its tail, growling as it padded across the earth in an agitated fashion.

  
Rearing his head, he silently walked to his old chair, turning around to face the submissive denizen sharing his private home. He curved his spine and stretched his muscles as he sat down, his studious gaze never leaving the quiet, oddly subdued aura being projected by the detective in front of him. He pricked his ears with renewed interest when an irritated huff sounded across the expanse of the space surrounding them. He tilted his head, diligently maintaining his silence.

  
“Charles Augustus Magnussen. Him, in case you were curious,” the man in front of him spat in a hoarse voice, his eyes meeting his gaze, ablaze with an intensity he has not been the recipient of for many weeks. The familiar feel of his psychological defenses were once again being erected, desperate to hide the slip of weakness. John has often wondered just how deep and prominent his psychological weaknesses ran. “You’ve seen him, no doubt, on numerous instances. On the newspaper, on the telly. He is everywhere, John. He preys,” his detective spat the word, as if it disgusted him on a visceral level to even consider the possibility of such a human to exist whose sole nature is none other but to fulfill such a deed. “on the weak, on the powerless. I find it repugnant to even think of the possibility of acknowledging that such a... _thing_ exists.”

  
That vulture, a _predator_?

  
A twisted chuckle escaped his lips, a gesture that intentional and deliberate by nature. The detective’s gaze sharpened dangerously, eyes narrowing, frantically analysing the anomaly of surrounding his reaction. His fingers dug deeper into the leather skin of his chair, the protruding digits taking on a milky colour as the blood drained from the force of his fury. He leaned back into his chair, muscles unwinding and relaxing even underneath the poorly veiled threat that was communicated through the detective’s infuriated body language. The detective pursed his lips, an endearing frown fixating itself on his face. The man tilted his head slightly in what he thought was a menacing gesture. It was obvious that he wanted to pressure John first into submission.

Tilting his head, he smiled as a wave of affection spread through him.

  
“That man isn’t a predator, Sherlock. He lacks the grace,” he said casually, crossing his legs, stretching them out across the carpeted floor. The detective’s body language tensed in astonishment. “The poise. The nature. The inclination. He is a gazelle in a lion’s hide.”

  
After a few seconds of silence, he responds. “ _Explain_ ,” he said quietly, with a frigid undertone. The man steepled his fingers together and rested them beneath his chin, head tilted slightly downward, the rich colours of his pupils burrowing into his gaze unblinkingly.

  
The King observes, circling the mongoose.

  
He bowed his head slightly, meeting the detective’s unblinking gaze with his own reptilian, analytical assessment. A poorly smothered shudder rippled through the other man’s body, and he smiled. “When a predator stalks its prey, it does not broadcast its presence. It uses the environment as its camouflage. It does not actively attempt to advertise its presence to nearby prey, least of all, to its potential competitors,” he states dogmatically with quiet conviction. Tilting his head, he continued. “Charles Augustus Magnussen is not a predator. Predators are difficult to identify, much less, single out. Indeed, he might’ve been difficult to single out. However, it doesn’t necessarily mean that the other description fits him. One can fake their way to a societal niche, but it is another thing to face and conceal your real nature.”

  
The man flared his nostrils. “I bet yours didn’t see you until it was too late, isn’t it, John?” he retorted. “You speak with a great deal of confidence on matters like these, and yet, you seem to forget about the man sitting in front of you.”

  
The King _hissed_.

  
“I never forget, Sherlock. I never _forget_ ,” he replied softly. “But then again, who was it that sought my protection? You mistook him for one, when I clearly saw that he was the other kind. You responded to the wrong cues, and your mind tricked you into believing otherwise. That is his camouflage, Sherlock. But, he _is_ clever about how he has eluded others for so long. That much is true.”

  
“And yet, I _saw_ through _you_ ,” he fired back, eyes ablaze. “Does that not qualify as the same situation?”

  
He was too intelligent for his own good. However, it is not enough.

  
He smiled in a reptilian fashion. “A true hunter never grovels, never pleads, and never negotiates. It takes pride - great pride - in its simplest, most primal form. If you really want a marker, a baseline for comparison, then that is the only difference between the genuine kind and the fake kind,” he smothered the smile from his face, eyes narrowing. “A genuine predator, in the presence of another, never compromise their pride for the sake of the other. They compete for the chance to catch their quarry. But, him? He retreated from the flat as quickly as he came in.”

  
Caution, the System hissed.

  
“And what am I, then, John?” the detective smirked, despite the evident scent of wariness and fear that pulsed underneath his bravado. “What am I? What am I to _you_?”

  
The mosasaur rumbled a threatening sound, its vocal chords amplifying it across the space as it emerged from the darkness of its underwater den. A low, reverberating sound echoed from the depths of its throat, the soulless ebony eyes honing in on the other man.

  
The King lashed its verterbrate-like tail, stalking forward. The entity emitted a low, shrill sound.

  
_A mating call_ , the System rumbled.

  
“The mongoose,” he responded with a hitch.

  
The man blinked, evidently stunned. He furrowed his brows in confusion, tilting his head.

  
_“The mongoose underneath the house when the snakes slither by_ ,” he finished.

 

 


	5. Mukozuke

_**“Graham had a lot of trouble with taste. Often his thoughts were not tasty. There were no effective partitions in his mind. What he saw and learned touched everything else he knew. Some of the combinations were hard to live with. But he could not anticipate them, could not block and repress. His learned values of decency and propriety tagged along, shocked at his associations, appalled at his dreams; sorry that in the bone arena of his skull there were no forts for what he loved. His associations came at the speed of light. His value judgments were at the pace of a responsive reading. They could never keep up and direct his thinking. He viewed his own mentality as grotesque but useful, like a chair made of antlers. There was nothing he could do about it.”** _

* * *

 

"Even in the grotesque nature of the details, lies an undeniable amount of arrogance and pride," he muttered under his breath, his gaze fixed on a distant, infinitesimally small point on the wall. To his side, a flash of movement came from his periphery. "But it is stated and fashioned in such a way that it does not immediately scream for attention. Grace and elegance was his signature, and according to him, to assert his presence through garish displays of dominance was the epitome of weakness."  
  
"He hunts them and devours them because they deserve it. He equates them with pigs, and what are pigs but for slaughter and harvest?" the level-headed voice responded behind him. "He sorts the lambs from the pigs. The untouched from the stained. And yet, one would be a complete fool to think that he indulges in these acts in the name of justice. Or perhaps, in name of as petty a concept such as karma."  
  
"What makes them deserve it, is the question," he released a strained breath, eyes narrowed and shoulders tense as the weight of the entity's attention continued pinning him. "He only strikes at certain periods of the month. He is not driven by the turn of the sun or the rising of the moon. He is not driven by animalistic desires."  
  
Even in the absence of visual evidence, the entity was surely smiling in civil approval. He gritted his teeth and forcefully closed his eyes, measuring the pattern of his breaths. "He does not think of himself as a lycan, and you would be wrong to think so. His behaviour does not mirror any conventional, repressed desire of his basal nature. No, what he does is evident in itself. He has evolved beyond the need of petty acts of dominance. He has evolved beyond all comprehensible forms of what we know as predators. He hunts because it has become his Primal Signature," the entity's voice echoed across the walled room. "In a manner of speaking, he embodies the pure, undiluted spirit of the Hunt itself. 'I am, therefore I must.' is his modus operandi."  
  
"What do you mean?" he asked in a subdued tone. "You are implying that all of them have...Signatures."  
  
"Randall Tier's desire was to become more than a human. Can you imagine how painful it is for you to be unable to exercise your one, basal desire?" the disembodied voice continued. He frowned, teeth clenching. "From this basal desire comes the Signature of every living being. When a person is able to connect with this desire and exert it on the material world, he functions properly. Randall Tier wanted simply this - a return to his primal roots. To bask in the joy of the Hunt, and to indulge in that desire freely and return to it as many times as he likes, without limit and without abandon. And yet, Randall Tier himself is not the physical manifestation of the Hunt."  
  
His hand twitched, sorely tempted to interrupt the flow of the entity's soliloquy.  
  
"A dissonance between these two is what gives rise to the civilized predators that we see today. In the eyes of others, it is a symptom of insanity, psychosis. For us, it is simply an act of will. We do the things we do and commit the deeds that we indulge in because it is what we stand for," it continued, undeterred. "Your good doctor, unfortunately enough, is the latter."  
  
John. The echoes of his birth name scrapes the walls and bone forts of his cranium on a daily basis, and every mention is another set of scratches that accumulate on the tattered walls of his memory palace. His walls and rooms were always stocked to the brim with cardboard boxes and cabinet files of memories and conversations over one-too-many cups of Earl Grey and chamomile. The formerly pristine hallways and the well-maintained Persian rugs and ancient tapestry that onced lined up the corridors in between his rooms, were writhing and seizing in painful tremors the longer that he treads remains in these rooms. Shards of memory were slipping past his fingers, and he does not know of any way to stop it from escaping.  
  
Memories and emotions, bleeding together, blurring the lines between the past and the present and the future.  
  
"You are merely a figment of my own mind," he snapped.  
  
"Your good doctor's fate is intertwined with yours, my dear William. You are two dualities that strive to be apart but the very nature of it also drives you back to each other. Conjoined lives, is the accurate term. Your beloved doctor embodies the spirit of the Hunt in its purest form, while you embody the purest form of clarity and perception. The highest form that can be achieved by any predator - it is to become one with the Spirit itself. Nothing will come after him again, William," the voice said. "You cannot stop it, and no one has dared to. Evolution is a process that occurs independently of our wishes. A figment of your mind I am, and yet, I simply reflect what you already know."  
  
"I will change him. The human mind is malleable, and if from it stems the origins of personality, then changing the core program is what permits me the freedom to make the necessary changes," he growled. "I will have him back."  
  
"I smell weakness from your arguments. You are not as convinced as you want to be. But then again, who am I to judge? We both know already that insanity consists of repeating the same methods in the pursuit of a goal, all the while knowing that it is futile," the entity replied, level-headedly. "Your doctor's evolution has already transcended yours. How can you aspire to outmatch him if you cannot exercise the gifts that you have been given at the highest level that they can be? There is no enemy here, William. There is only a lack of understanding."  
  
"What is there left to understand?" he snapped, his head whipping around to snarl at the enclosed room. "John has made it clear that he will continue killing, killing at the expense of others!"  
  
"Is that all there is? Your fragile sense of right and wrong? You would rather rely on your vague sense of morality to decide whether or not a person needs to be institutionalized?" the entity challenged. Sherlock closed his eyes, nostrils flaring. "And this is why you will never understand. All of the evidence has already been brought forward to your attention. You simply need to understand. Your good doctor has already done you the favor of pointing it out the list of your follies. You will never outmatch him, and you will never catch him. You can only understand him."  


* * *

_**“He could feed the caterpillar, he could whisper through the chrysalis; what hatched out followed its own nature and was beyond him.”** _

* * *

  
The pungent scent of the flat was the first marker of his mind's reconciliation with emprirical reality. As the background cacophony of urban London slowly overtook and replaced the sounds of his mental corridors and enclosed rooms, he opened his eyelids and bleerily gazed about the flat. His eyes landed on the unoccupied chair across from his, observing the neatly folded newspaper delivered on their doorstep not a few hours ago. A lodged sensation accumulated at the back of his throat, and he swallowed. The nerves on his throat cried feebly and he grimaced.  
  
The dominating silence permeating the flat was not more tolerable than the shadowing presence of his doctor. In fact, it was silence that was often the main contributor to his sullen moods and his agitated periods. The silence that The Doctor often left in his wake always seemed to possess this innate quality of vigilance and greed, as if it could barely stop itself from lashing out and grabbing ahold of his mind. The silence that he often left behind often mimicked his doctor's patterns of mind and tendencies - it stalked him, hoarded his precious mental energy, and always trailed after him with a glaring sense of permanence. It did not possess any killing intent - for that would be a highly illogical trait to assign to a non-sentient being - and yet he could not deny that the Silence was somehow trying to tell him in its own vague way, this period of his life was just another calm before the storm.  
  
There is nothing that will shake it from him, or from everything else that he cares for. The Doctor was an infectious character, and everything that he was and all that he will be was reflected in every square metre of their Baker Street lodgings. The patterns of his life and the manifestations of his thoughts and his macabre fantasies were evident in every piece of furniture and belonging present in their very space. With every sweep of his gaze across the room, the soundless echoes of The Doctor's sturdy body and intellect trailed after every pathway available. The essence of his soul infected everything, as if he was desperate to mark it as his own.  
  
_'This is my stronghold, my Nest. This is where I make my home. From this place, I hoard and keep all the things that I desire. I guard them with my life and I provide for them. This is my territory, my wilderness. From it, I see. From it, I know. And when I venture out of it, I hunt._

  
_'The spirit of the Hunt is reflected in my eyes, in the deliberateness of my movement, in the calculating aura of my mind. With every prey that I fell, with every quarry that I wrestle to the throes of death, I reflect the highest form of the art. From chaos I make order. From death, I give Life. From pride, I give humility. From deception, I make truth. I am the highest form of the Hunt and nothing supersedes me. I make humble the prideful. I protect the natural cycle of Darwinian selection. I protect the natural order of the art for those that practice it. I am the Hunt, and I will always exist.'_  
  
A wave of panic coiled around his chest. He gasped for oxygen, but the traitorous grip of his demons only tightened around his ribs.  
  
This was often his mistake nowadays for allowing the Pendulum to take him beyond the point of what his rational, human mind can tolerate. He has rarely used it since the point of his childhood, and there was a sufficient reason that this ability was deliberately sheltered away in the derelict corridors of his mental castle. As the passage of time allowed him to flourish into the full bloom of his adulthood, any memories associated with this ability had fragmented and evaporated from his immediate reach. What needs must, however. And so, he mustered the courage and resurrected the Gift. But not before it came with the consequences.  
  
The Gift allowed him unfiltered insight into the complex permutations of human behavior. It finally gave him access to the emotional roots that often underlied the causes of most crimes and wrongdoings. The Gift allowed him to detach from the limits of his own body and force him to view things as they truly were. The flashes of insight became more streamlined and automatic, and were it not for the repercussions that followed, he would've basked in the ease at which he solved numerous problems. The Gift was a curse, paradoxically enough. It was as The Doctor himself put it.  
  
There was no more room in the fragile bone arena of his mind for the things that he loves, and for the things that he once loved. Rooms that were built to withstand the pressure and the assaults of everyday life and corridors that were constructed to separate different types of knowledge and memories, have fragmented to infinite shards and have blended together, erasing the lines between emotion and reason. There was no more need for filtering. He could dip his hands into the well and pull up all that he ever needs. The past, the present, and the future - they blurred together, forming one continuous line. The very building blocks of his humanity, bare for all to see.  
  
And it was agonizing.  
  
Constantly switching from one mode of reality to another, it strains his psyche. He has no more shelter from the external world, no more refuge from the invasive words and ideology that The Doctor constantly strives to champion. But at the same time, the enemy that could have been once found in the depths of his mental dungeons, has finally ceased to exist. Moriarty's remaining traces of existence were completely scraped off the face of his mind. He no longer faces the threat of jeers, taunts, and manipulations to his sanity.  
  
The Doctor, the liberator. The Doctor, the final problem.  
  
He draws in a breath and closes his eyes, forcing his shoulders to lean into the cushion of his seat. The air around him pulsates with approval, slithering around him with a vigilant energy. He ignores the rising tide of weariness undulating underneath his skin. The background noise of urban London fades into the distance and he allows himself to fall into the endless chasm of silence, with a hint of resignation.  
  
The tranquil atmosphere shattered at the frantic scurrying of footsteps, one floor down the Baker Street lodgings. The endless chasm screeched around him and he abruptly jolted back into a state of complete awareness. He coiled his hands into fists and uncoiled them, digging his fingers into the leather armrests. With his eyes only opened at half-mast, he feebly oriented his head in the direction of the ajar door.  
  
Two steps skipped at a time. Agitated, shocked, frightened. Not flat-footed. NSY.  
  
Lestrade.  
  
"We found a body," the detective wheezed, hunched over as he gasped for breath. "It's definitely him. There's no doubt about it."  
  
He swallowed. His gut churned at the inevitable. "'Him'?"  
  
The grey-haired detective leaned his hand against the surface of the ajar door, still heaving for air. A slight frown of bewilderment crossed his face as he gazed at him. He avoided looking at his eyes. "Really? You don't know? It's him. Again."  
  
The Doctor has hunted again. But something about this one is special.  
  
"Give me the details," he replied in monotone. The nerves underneath his skin undulated with agitation and he had half the mind to snap at the other man for his persistent gaze.  
  
"The Shrike. It's the Shrike again, Sherlock," the other man relayed. "I know it's same person because it is consistent with the signature markers that I've reviewed in the past cases. Victims -"  
  
"- were found to be either mutilated beyond recognition or impaled on something sharp and curved, like a thorn's barb. Yes, now give me the salient facts and don't regurgitate information," he snapped.  
  
"Just wait, yeah? I haven't reached that part yet and you already look like you are ready to pass it on," the other man snapped back. "It is the Shrike, that's for sure -"  
  
"- and I believe that we already established that -"  
  
"- and, at the same time, it's also the first time that they have completely violated their pattern," he finished, undeterred.  
  
It was not the first time that The Doctor deviated from his usual pattern of victims. However, a deviation from a set pattern is risky enough as it is that he cannot help but get the gut feeling that The Doctor was somehow attempting to communicate with him. Either way, it was time to unwrap the Christmas present and peer into and beyond the wraps.  
  
"What...do you mean, 'violated their pattern'?" he questioned cautiously.  
  
The Doctor was a cunning specimen. He will never deviate from his twisted code of ethics, not unless it was for some farsighted rationalization of some kind that involved him personally.  
  
"The victim's history, we examined it. She had no prior history of convictions or anything even. Her history was squeaky clean. Nothing, can you believe it? There was nothing on her at all. And yet, the Shrike is practically all over her," Lestrade continued. "It's a step-up from ex-convicts and sexual offenders. I don't understand."  
  
It is always a capital mistake to theorize before one has the data. The Doctor was always strict on following his basic principles and rules, as a tribute to his former life before he turned into his current trade. And yet, he had a strong and clear conviction that this had a direct relation with the most recent visit of the late Charles Augustus Magnussen. The Doctor always indulged himself in a Hunt, at every instant that his emotions were knocked out of a position of equilibrium.  
  
He exhaled slowly. "What's...her name?"  
  
"Janine. The personal secretary of Mr. Magnussen. You can see why this will really throw the public off their rocker," the other man concluded. "I...I really have no clue why the Shrike would violate their own pattern, especially at this time of the year."  
  
The Doctor has little remorse, and so why should he care for societal tradition? He is an outcast himself, so why would The Doctor bother with upholding pointless social rituals? At least, they are to him. Social atmosphere was not something that he particularly prioritised in terms of his time window before the next one turned up. He has virtually been devoid of empathy since he made his appearance. What inference can be made then as to the nature of his inclinations and activities in the last few years?  
  
Almost all of the cold cases that have been filed and archived in cardboard boxes with the intent of being forgotten bears traces of The Doctor's handiwork, his Signature. He examined them personally, one by one, piece by piece, image by image. All of the photographs of the victims and the evidence are seared into the very cells of his optic nerves, and with eyes closed, he can point with fingers to the correct epithets that NSY has assigned to the same man. The Doctor changes his signature once he hits the ten-mark. Exactly at the death of the tenth victim. It was the only minute detail that enabled him to pinpoint the different signatures to the same man.  
  
Methodical, deliberate, calculating. The Doctor, but not the army doctor that he knew. He knows little else nowadays.  
  
What little breath he had in his lungs were wrenched out of him in one painful movement. He clenched his jaws, closing his eyes. The muscles on his ribcage quivered with every round of expansion, and the lump at the base of his throat swelled slightly in response. Even though it was physically impossible, it still felt like that the air particulates within their lodgings had been suffused with carbon monoxide particles. The divide between his mind and his physiological state was blurring.  
  
He smothered the choked sound that bubbled from the base of his throat.  
  
"John's already there. If you don't mind, grab your coat and we can leave. I have a car waiting downstairs," the other man continued, blissfully ignorant.    
  
Shards of ice settled at the lower end of his gut. "That's fine. I'll...take a separate cab."  
  
The Doctor will hover around him and observe with the same penetrating and opportunistic nature often associated with the corvids circling around the carrion, their ebony eyes glinting menacingly as the stench of the rotting carcasses stung their olfactory receptors. He drew in another lungful of oxygen, swallowing against the lump at the base of his throat. If The Doctor could have his way, he would be relegated to this existence - always switching back and forth between a state of complete derealization and a state of raw nerves.  
  
Sometimes, he wonders if he hasn't simply traded away one enemy for another. An enemy is an arbitrary concept, he thinks, and it can take on nearly any form that you want it to. Tangible or intangible. Physical or abstract. An enemy is simply an obstacle that you overcome because it presents a challenge to your pre-existing set of beliefs. At this instance, he is truly uncertain if his enemy is either complete insanity or complete lucidity. Or perhaps if he could find it in the midpoint between the other two.  
  
He cannot continue doing this. He simply cannot. For now, yes, he will hold on.  
  
But he is running out of rope.  
  
"It's at Brixton Lane, Lauriston Gardens. Back where it all started. Fitting, don't you think?"  
  
"Depends on your frame of reference. I don't make it a habit to theorize before I get all of my data. It skews the results," he snapped back, feebly.  
  
"Alright, alright, you old grump. Come on, I think I see another cab parking on the side. We don't have time to waste."

* * *

_**“What he has in addition is pure empathy and projection,” Dr. Bloom said. “He can assume your point of view, or mine – and maybe some other points of view that scare and sicken him. It’s an uncomfortable gift, Jack. Perception’s a tool that’s pointed on both ends.”** _

* * *

  
The flesh was once a beautiful, unblemished porcelain surface that could have reflected a type of ethereal and trascendental beauty that could have served as a representation of the apex of her existence. Her beauty, was of a rare type. It spoke of levels of gentleness and demureness that would have been the envy of her kind, and yet, it also possessed the bottomless pit of potential that could have been transformed into a force of good. Even in Death, her eyes still glinted and rippled, her corona partially reflecting shafts of light. The only trace proving to her existence - was the permanent picture of horror and agony etched upon her facial features, a cruel and grotesque gesture that mocks the essence of her being.  
  
The neat, striated lines of cuts and welts that decorated the once-living biological canvas were both deliberate and animalistic in its nature. This was done by someone who possessed more than the average level of sadism - a hallmark feature that he has not seen since studying the Ripper's work, long before he has been caught and imprisoned in the US. The lines were deliberate and it spoke of a level of lucidity that was frightening to witness. They were applied methodically and it was carried out over a long period of time.  
  
There was a hint of a surgical incision on her sternum, but the unfinished trail of crimson lines told of a deed that was dropped at the last minute. He lost his patience with the fragile hummingbird, and he pierced the serrated knife through the sternum instead, all of his characteristic level-headedness absent. That was the cause of hummingbird's death.  
  
The knife was not going to be found in the crime scene. It will not be in the garbage cans either. It will be located somewhere more meaningful, more signifcant to the Shrike. The Shrike. The Doctor. What difference did it make? They were one and the same. They were one and the same. The Shrike chose her, chose the hummingbird rather than the vulture, because she represented the peak of the act. There was no joy, no delight, no rush in the blood when The Doctor would've felled the old, withering figure of the vulture. No, it needed a complete representation of its capabilities. The Doctor wanted  _him_ to know how much power he had and how little say his prey had as they watch the slow and agonizing disappearance of their beauty from life. The Doctor wanted to foreshadow to him, the fall from grace.   
  
She represented the slow and agonising trail to death that would soon befall the infamous media mogul of Europe, Charles Augustus Magnussen. This was both a gift and a warning. To the right party, it was a gift - and in a twisted way befitting the rationalization that often came from the Doctor's twisted psyche - it was also a peace offering of some sort. And to the other party, it was a Trojan Horse. It represented The Shrike's desire to extend the duration of the hunt. The Shrike - The Doctor, The London Ripper, a messy coagulation of these identities - was revealing the extent and depth of its sadism. The hornet's nest has been stirred and it was stinging everything within reach.   
  
The Doctor was openly broadcasting its presence to the public. And like any other apex predator, it was going for the next most fitting prey.  
  
_'She was the closest link to you. You are a perverse creature. You have violated my core tenets. You have violated the purity and the sanctity of the Hunt. You have toyed with methods and ideals that are not befitting your true nature. You have used them and tainted them in a bid to preserve yourself against the practitioners of the Hunt. The very methods I championed. You have disgraced my art. You are an abomination,'_ The Doctor's mockery beyond death, was painfully palpable. Sherlock shivered, drawing his head closer to his chest.   
  
The Doctor's statement was as clear as day.  
  
He closed his eyes, frantically attempting to shield himself from the next wave of intrusive insights. His hands automatically clenched themselves, serving as the only inconspicuous outlet for his rising level of internal agitation. For a few minutes, he attempted to inconspicuously manage his erratic breathing patterns.  
  
_Focus on the knife. Where is it?_  
  
The Shrike, The Doctor - he would only place it in a location that he deems to have the highest level of significance in his life. A location where he is allowed to be intimate, and cast aside the masks that he wears. A place of safety, of comfort, of belonging, of understanding. He would place it there, because he wants to show something. To prove something. The Doctor wants to prove something to the Mongoose.  
  
He was the Mongoose to The Doctor's cobra. The Yin to his Yang. The sweltering heat of the sand dunes to his frigid arctic.  
  
This victim was a gift, for him. 

Sherlock swallowed roughly.  
  
' _I took away her life, because she was unworthy of it. She was so beautiful, so breathtaking that such ethereal beauty was wrong to be found in your hands. I held a great amount of delight as the light behind her eyes slowly dimmed and retreated into the chasmic dark. She made me work for it, oh, yes. She did. But that was the thrill, wasn't it? The Hunt. The maddening undulation of arteries. You will never know. You will never understand,'_ The Doctor's echoed mockingly, his breath teasing against his ears. ' _The joy of the Hunt. The thrilling call of the ancient chase. The maddening dance between competing predators as they fight for their chance to win the meat. The rush, the tingle in the spine as you fight to end your prey's life. You will never be one of us. You will never be anything more._ '  
  
After the two-minute mark, he opened his eyes again, gazing unseeingly into the corpse. In an effort to veil his inner conflict, he feigned an intricate and systematic examination of the corpse's inner forearms and her lacerated neck. As more of the officers on scene passed by, he plastered on his characteristic look of indifference. He reared back his head and exhaled softly. The pulsating motion of his carotid artery and the sound of his blood engulfed his sense of reality, at this very moment.

Sherlock wondered briefly if the heightened senses of The Doctor could smell it, the strain of his mental machinery. The blood that he could still smell on his hands (he was seeing through The Doctor's eyes, and he wonders if he ever knew, knew that he could both understand and yet not approve), and his ironic capability for gentleness. The intimate, soft touches and fingers that ran down the length of his back at sleepless nights when the sorry bone forts occupying his mental arena screeched and clawed against the confines of his cranium, vibrating and lashing out with the ferocity of his feverish dreams and opportunistic demons. He wondered, if he was another predator in the making, biding his time in the chrysalis, even as the Doctor continued whispering things into his ears, gently guiding his evolution. 

A wave of nausea assaulted his gut. 

What was The Doctor's endgame?   
  
"Need some help there, Sherlock? I couldn't really pin down a cause of death earlier, but...I think I might have an idea, actually," the crisp, confident lull of The Doctor's voice echoed across the cacophony generated by his thumping artery. The hackles on his neck stood on end as it detected the near-intimate distance between them.  
  
First symptom: the pathological lying.  
  
His chest clenched painfully and he bit down on his tongue, warding off another impending panic attack. Every axon and every dendrite spanning across body were twitching and writhing in agony, begging him to break out into a run and chase out anyone and everyone in his immediate vicinity, and drive them away from his personal space. The pointed ends of his perception was pricking his skin, and the silent plea of help will not be heard by anyone. He was alone in his crusade and isolated in his efforts.  
  
Second symptom: the superficial charm.  
  
The Doctor was a cunning specimen, and it was capable of fitting on many skins at once and choosing them depending on the dynamics of his circumstance. He was the epitome of the Darwinian beast, eluding the scrutiny of the creatures with more intelligence. The skins he wears always changes by the eve and setting of the sun, and he never plays the same role twice. His venom was capable of bringing anyone at Death's door.  
  
Third symptom: lack of remorse or guilt.

Sherlock shivered. His sentiment was echoed by the muscle cramp that suddenly seized his lower right leg.   
  
"The cause of death was a knife wound in the chest," he admitted in a subdued tone. "The presence of these cuts were deceptive. The perpetrator did this in advance, for he knew that it served the potential to throw off the scent from his back."  
  
_'I thought of cutting out the heart and sending it, gift-wrapped, to your front porch. But something stoppped me,'_ The Doctor whispered again.

Sherlock exhaled heavily, screwing his eyes shut.   
  
What was it that stopped The Doctor? What trailing thought was strong enough to cause the detectable change in emotional equilibrium?  
  
"I...was about to suggest that, but, I'll take your word for it then," came the sane, lucid reply.  
  
The Shrike was hovering around him, like a dutiful corvid.  
  
His cardiac muscles throbbed and the persistent lump was forming again at the base of his throat. His vocal chords were being stretched and contracted with an unvoiced sentiment, and he swallowed it down. His lungs threatened to collapse into an erratic fit, and a dry sob was clawing its way up his throat. He fisted his hands and hauled himself to his feet, wavering slightly.  
  
"So, what've we got?" Lestrade asked.  
  
His hackles bristled as the deadening weight of The Doctor's gaze trailed after him, continually fixed on that one spot at the back of his neck. He tramped down on the desire to run, and turned his head to properly look at the Detective Inspector. "Cause of death was a knife wound to the chest. Apart from that, the motive for the murder was not clear."  
  
The grey-haired detective raised his eyebrows in bemusement. The crawling sensation at the lower end of his back grew more prominent. "Knife wound, really? With all these cuts on her? Don't you think she would've bled out first?"  
  
"She didn't, that was the point. She wasn't supposed to die that way. Her death was meant to be swift, but not before a certain amount of enjoyment at her expense," he spoke on autopilot. "They enjoyed it. But then something happened and they quickly ended her suffering."  
  
"Enjoyed it? Are you interpreting the evidence or are you making conjectures?" the detective asked, dubious.  
  
*Not now. Not now. Please.*  
  
"Read up on criminal profiling, will you? I cannot make anymore conclusions, until I get the report from the autopsy," he snapped. "If that's all, I'll be going."  
  
"Well, aren't you in an odd mood today," Lestrade quipped. "Will you tell me what's going on with you?"  
  
"Text me when the report's finished, Lestrade," he snapped.

* * *

Moriarty's legacy was not the death of three people.  
  
It was his madness. The madness that infects and percolates within the mind, permeating every pore, every cell, every neuron, every muscle fibre. It infected every thought, every word, every impulse. It directed the birth and the development of new generations of daughter somatic cells, and it would continue doing so for eternity. Moriarty's madness has a ripple effect, and as dictated by the laws of physics, it stands to reason that it would also affect and permanently warp the lives lead by countless others. Butterfly effects played its role as well, that's for certain, but such momentous occasions are so rare and few in between.


End file.
